20 January 2011

A fresh starched linen kind of day

A good hard frost and the world sparkles like fresh starched linen. White fingers retreat from the coastal fringes. The moon fat and full casts drift light over sand and water smooth as glass.

I run over the sands, barely picking out puddly patches in the half-light. So still. So quiet. Just me and my trusty guide breathing step by step. We haven’t done this for the longest time.

Back to the start and a short burst of speed. Arms and legs pumping, heart beating faster. Then drop to recover at a plod. And again, sprint to the line, then slow. Gulping down breath in great bites before firing up the knees again and again.

A sharp snap and a microsecond stumble. An unconsious cry of shock at the tension wire twitch. A temporary blackout of signals and synapses, soon forgotten in the riot of another surge.

Adrenaline fired warmth surges through my circuits, nerve endings tingling like a million neon lights. I only notice the cold when I’m finished and my fingers prickle with icy fire.

I’ve forgotten about the back pack weighing me down. Before I remove it, I’m already released. Even the return to the humdrum cannot diminish my energy crackle.